Appointment in a bus
by AAluminium
Summary: It's just a real appointment in a bus. And I was a girl talked to this strange man.


When I was going to an appointment with Irina on Gorky street, I saw a strange man in the bus. I will not able to describe his appearance from point to point; there was something imponderable, magnetic and frightening simultaneously; there was something weird and haughty in every feature of his patrician face. He looked like as if he was otherworldly: probably he followed by an ancient Tibetan proverb: 'to be a part of the world but stand aback'; such a white crow surrounded by the melanic confreres.

The man had pale, sandy-chestnut hair, slightly disheveled by the wind, with entangled snowflakes in it – perhaps, he had come recently. Pure, expansive forehead. Straight, thin nose. Too garish, plump and sensual lips for this pale face. Mellow-back, dressed to the nines. Despite the usual style of his coat had no difference with an average student's clothing and his lightgray scarf didn't shine with Armani label but all was plain to see: the clothes were expensive. Very expensive.

But it wasn't only one thing astonished me, there was another peculiarity which could rivet focus everyone's attention, including people who didn't read the books about characters had an odd psychology – I won't devote another kilometer to that conversation. The case is that the man had heterochromatic eyes – one green-brown, it seems, this shade is called 'hazel'. And another one – milky-blue, with the faintest shade of emerald green. Man's eyelashes were long and black – it isn't typical for a pale-haired man – and, however, it is a hallmark of the breed of people.

I didn't scrutinize him – as a minimum, it isn't discourteous, as a maximum – I can understand the man is gazed. I dislike when I'm stared by the other people, as if I'm an object in a museum as well.

Maybe, I'd forget – unlikely! –this man, if I hadn't the long conversation: he had lighted down from the bus earlier than me, I remember everything what we discussed but I am not sure that it is the correct sequence. I told Julie everything, floundering, incapable to make a normal sentence – and now, it seems, I can't transfer my thoughts on paper.

He asked me to hand money for the pass. Nothing strange in the action – too much in the phrase:

- Is not that big of a pain for you to do me a favor? The check taker is closer to you.

I was surprised by an ancientry of his language, but I complied with his request, closed the book I read. It was 'Martin Eden' by Jack London. The man kept a watchful eye on my actions.

- Thank you… You have fastidious hands. – he said suddenly. – They are very soigne and pale. Are you a musician?

- I play the piano a bit. – I answered, astonishing.

The second man is telling me something like that – well, in the other way. I had my nose in the book again, jump the uninteresting description.

- Perhaps, you have aristocrats in your family? You have sufficient exquisite face.

I looked up at him.

- I'm not sure I can talk it to a stranger. – I answered more tartly than I wanted. The man examined me, inclined the head. A cold shiver ran down my spine: I caught something chilly, violent and, at the same time, extraordinary in his gaze, as if there are two fine lines of various concepts… I don't know how I can explain it more clearly, I can't think of the right word.

- Do you like foreign languages? – he asked, looking at red-white cover with English letters.

- Yes, I do.

- Do you prefer classics? – he inquired again. I noted a faint defect in his tongue – or it was an accent. Sort of he had a lisp a bit, as if he blistered his tongue. I wasn't afraid of questions. I was disquieted by raisings the questions, if you will, their design: rigid, according to the schedule 'subject – predicate', like it is in English. As a matter of fact, it was a certain psychological method, every man can feel a compellation to him and he reciprocates, he does it involuntary, on the subconscious level. We had an eye contact – usually, most of people are embarrassed by my habit. The strange man didn't withdraw his eyes.

- Correct.

- Are you good at painting?

- I have to confess, I'm not good at this branch of art; I'm aware of many painters' pictures, but, as a rule, I do not memorize these names. Except canvases I was 'hooked'.

- And which canvases did you 'hook'? – for a moment his lips froze in a grin, but it was extremely transitorily.

- Normally, Renaissance.

- Da Vinci? – a grin wrung his plump lips again.

- He is unexceptionable but I I'm sorry: he is completely worn, ne plus ultra. Everyone heard about 'La Gioconda' – and a little more well-educated person knows about 'Lord's Supper' as well. People should learn at least five pictures from all fifteen.

- Who is your enfant Cherie, then? Conceptual art?

I was silent.

- No, it isn't. I shall never comprehend either Malevich or Dali. But Jan van Eyck, 'The Arnolfini Portrait' is arresting my sight for a long time, and the most favourite picture of mine is 'Judith and Holofernes' by Caravaggio.

The man raised his eyebrows slightly but pulled himself up there and then. All the bus gazed at us.

- If the first one is outstanding enough but the second one is talking about a true taste. Do you like music, lady?

- Yes, I do.

- Modern?

- I listen to modern Italian and French music but I'm ready to sit hour after hour in the Philharmonic Hall.

- What classic music was deserved by your attention?

- Now, it is Alkan in particular.

His eyebrows began to creep up but the man collected himself.

- It is unusual to hear that. It is utterly complicated music technically. It is complicated in a mental way as well; not everyone can see the true value. Nevertheless, you prefer curious art forms, I shall go so far as to say it is fairly odd for our century.

- Odd? I am not sure you cannot describe Renaissance with this simple phrase. As I said conceptual art like Dali or Malevich is not my scene.

A brief smirk. He directed his heterochromic eyes at me, where was a splash of clearly interests, covered by a reflection of skepticism mingled with a mock.

- Do not compare. Occasionally Dali is as good as any.

- I agree. I was lucky enough to see some of his lithographs of divine theme.

- Did you like it?

- I still remember.

- It is more important, - he noticed. – Everyone can learn names of various of the pictures but does not feel nothing of senses. – He was silent briefly and later he asked me: - What is your name?

I knew full well I shouldn't throw around my name, also I knew full well about warnings on that score and, in fact, from the viewpoint of esotery the fate depends on your name but against my will the answer took off from my mouth. I haven't had time to realized what had happened, I am not going to do that!..

- Beautiful name, - he estimated, drawling. He had the agreeable, mild and velvet voice, ensphered. – Do you know a story of your name's origin?

- I do.

- Do you know all the Marguerites are extremely smart and purposeful?

- Do not remind me about my namesakes, please. But you are right, I keep in mind Thatcher and Valois.

- Not bad. Do you know you will able to achieve everything what you want if you make an effort?

- Where did you dream that up? – I said incredulously.

- I can tell it from the look in your eyes. They aren't wicked, not sharp but they are resolute and steady.

- Thank you very much.

- Not at all. You are aristocratic, intelligent. But do you know lack of manners will obstruct you?

- Usually my long tongue helps me.

A brief smirk of the corner of his mouth.

- Ah, what a typical female trait! Even the intelligent of women listen to a talker, but do not hear him!.. I was not talking about 'long tongue', but I was telling you about the lack of manners. Do you understand me?

- I do.

- Excellent. You will certainly achieve everything what you want. Regardless. But everything will be simplier if you can control your temper.

- It's hard.

- But it isn't impossible. Likewise… I was learning it for a long time, again and again proving that people are thick-skinned, and this obtusity can put you out within overwhelming short time.

- I do not comprehend what you are talking about.

- You are far from the Snow Queen, lady, and you know it. But you _do understand _perfectly what feelings possess of a person isolated from the society. He's coming to the others, he's turning to people, they betray. And he withdraws into himself, into his own jail of thoughts and senses. He's decomposing, searching his blunders. - Why are you talking me about? There are a fair number of girls and women, they are more beautiful, more clever and more educational than me. They are mellow-back, their manners are better too.

- Do you like examining people? – come another strange question, which wasn't connect with my answer.

- It happens.

- Do you notice their particularities, read their characters?

I was thinking for a moment.

- Sometimes, I think… yes.

- And probably you will agree the beauty doesn't always combine with an intellect, which, by the way, is referred to the abstract concepts.

- How is that? What do you mean by that?

- A person who has homespun wisdoms will never be able to understand an academician professor, who gained his knowledge by way of researches and – then! – as a result of his practice, his chemical reactions. The first one could get a point by his own efforts.

- I still don't understand for which purpose you give these examples.

- You listen to me, but not hear, - he said with a reproach in disguise. – Your glance betrays you, your goals. You are looking at me; you aren't taking your eyes off me. Alas, the nature endued me that strange hallmark. I mean my heterochromic eyes. Occasionally people are afraid of it, they are embarrassed by that… multicolor glance. But you are looking at me, on the contrary. Stubbornly. Slightly frowned, I don't deny. But you are looking, you aren't turning away. You will face the danger (and difficulties) as imperturbable as you are looking at me now.

- A compliment is always flattery. – I can't say it was unpleasant for me, on the contrary. I don't know as far as he's right about me and as far as he is mistaken, but I have no idea elsewhere I can see talking to people not into the eyes. – Why do you flatter me?

- Again. – he snorted. – I must confess, I have my own car but… sometimes it is better to use mass transport. I'm analyzing men and women, I'm thinking of their vices and how people hide them. Marguerite, Margo, the book character named by your name, she isn't a weak and stupid maiden. You aren't a plain girl, who should hide from everyone. Do you understand me?

- Perfectly. But why am I discussing it with the stranger?

- To add a little bit of varnish… - he murmured, prescinding; I didn't comprehend why he said that. – Why, you ask. Not least because we shall meet, perhaps, more than one time. I'm interested in that fact: shall I recall you, and will you recall me.

- We live in city with population exceeding one million. Do you know how many Marguerites live there? And I don't know your name, I will not able to find you with… modern technologies.

- Is somebody talking Nizhny Novgorod about? – he waved. – We shall meet… another time, another place. Perhaps, another country. It may happen in Italy, France, Finland, China – even in America. You're smart and self-sufficing, you will be able to go to every corner of the world, if you want… - he was silent and cast a glance upon my hair. – And… return to previous colour. Sometimes it is advantageous to pretend a poor fool. It's simplier to do if you are blonde. Now you can project yourself into a wanton woman… it's not your scene, young lady. You have the other role. And remember: blondes vanish! – he smirked almost in irony and stepped out from the bus, even not looking back. I watched his silhouette dissolve into thin air, becoming less visible, until he disappeared entirely.


End file.
